“ He laughs again and I want to eat his laughter, be nourished by it, feel it in my blood. ”
Dancing is like poetry written by our bodies: our outstretched arms our words of longing.
~ Lene Fogelberg
Maybe there is an invisible world working behind our own, maybe words in the silence, maybe movements in what looks completely still. When every door is closed, maybe doors are opening that can’t be seen.
In strength the body only knows itself, is full of itself, its movements, its words, but in weakness is the invisible and the whisperings.
Sometimes you know that you are destined to die, but somehow you are given a parenthesis after the punctuation mark: more years, more time that wasn’t meant for you but still was meant for you, a bridge stretching out into the stars, a confidence built of invisible threads, a miracle.
